


see inside my bones

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drama, Established Relationship, Hope, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, break-up, h/c, inappropriate/inept treatment of depression, learning how to deal with depression, mental health institutions, struggling relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is in love with Merlin, who is in love with death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. three years ago

**Author's Note:**

> A series of drabbles/ficlets belonging to the same universe. I've got a couple, but only two edited & polished for posting. More should come soon.
> 
> Please **don't read** if you're sensitive to any of the following topics: depression; self-harm; suicide; self-hatred etc.
> 
> You also shouldn't read it if you're affected by potential inept/ignorant treatment of/response to any of these things. It's not easy to deal with if you don't suffer from it yourself, and Arthur is learning, for Merlin, for himself--for their "us."

(three years ago) 

 

Merlin came home with tired eyes and a flat mouth the fourth day in a row. He didn’t say a word as he entered the living room; his mouth tried to curve into a smile and failed. When he sank into the couch beside Arthur, Arthur barely felt the weight of him.

 _Merlin the ghost_ , Arthur thought. A chill crept up his spine from the truth of it. 

“Hey,” he said softly, ducked his head a bit in an attempt to catch Merlin’s eyes. Something twisted inside his stomach from the way Merlin didn’t react, just stared straight ahead at something Arthur couldn’t see. Something Arthur never could see.

“Hey, love.” He tried a nickname, knew how nicknames usually made Merlin complain for the sake of complaining but blush anyway, because he secretly loved them.

No reaction; only silence, long and cold and denying.

Merlin sat beside him, but he didn’t. Merlin was with Arthur, but he wasn’t. Arthur swallowed. He felt alone with Merlin beside him, as it was now.

He didn’t want to know what it was like for Merlin.

Anger slammed through him. He felt helpless. Before Merlin, he’d never felt helpless.

“Merlin,” he murmured, leaning forward. He touched his hand to Merlin’s knee as if trying to keep Merlin from wandering the spheres he always wandered, knowing it was futile. But he just… he just…

“Come on, cheer up,” he said at last, words stumbling out of his mouth without thought; pushed past his teeth, because.

Because what could he do? What could he do?

“Don’t pull such a face. You have to pull yourself together.”

He only realised his words when Merlin stared up at him, eyes dark with guilt and self-loathing.

Merlin said nothing, only disappeared behind the slammed bedroom door.

That night, Arthur’s mouth traced four new gashes on the soft flesh of the inside of Merlin’s upper arm. From the broken, bloody skin Arthur tasted all the words Merlin’s mouth couldn’t give him.

_I’m sorry I’m such a freak. Why don’t you leave me? Please leave me. I’m only making your life miserable. I’m sorry I can’t smile. I wish I could. I don’t want to be like this all the time. I hate this. I wish it would end, but it doesn’t. It never does. I don’t know what to do. I hate this. I hate this. Please leave me. Please don’t leave me. I’m sorry._

Arthur learnt the hard way that his words—cheer up, pull yourself together, don’t pull such a face—were of the same effect as though he’d told someone with a broken leg to grow a new one.


	2. four months before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Don't read** if you're triggered by suicide attempts.

(four months before)

 

There was an unanswered call on his mobile, because Arthur was at work, at a meeting. He hurried out an hour later, because Merlin never called during meetings. There was no text, no voice message: just ‘one missed call.’

Merlin was meant to be teaching his kids about Magical History while Arthur was supposed to be at the meeting. They’d agreed to meet for a coffee, at four. Merlin never left his kids alone. Not since…

Panic engulfed Arthur in an invisible but all-too tangible embrace, and his body moved without his awareness; automatic, purposeful. All he could see was ‘one missed call’ as he turned on the engine of the car, as he stormed up the stairs to their flat, as his fingers fought with the key, as his leaden legs led him inside.

One missed call; one missed chance.

He didn’t hear the echoes of his own frantic steps as they led him to the bathroom.

He found Merlin in the bathtub, at last having become the ghost that had grown inside him for the last months. There was a sea of red, gushing from Merlin’s veins that were split apart like withered winter branches; torn open for the flood of blood.

Arthur felt a terrifying nothingness with the devastating force of a cancer. Dimly he wondered if this was how Merlin felt, all the time.

Like you weren’t here, even though you were.

The next three seconds stretched into eternities. 

In those three seconds, Arthur’s eyes drank in the smoothness of Merlin’s skin that he’d missed those last weeks: the absence of heavy-lidded eyes, the absence of a contorted mouth. Here, now, everything was smooth with youth, the way it was meant to be. Merlin looked so peaceful, as if he were only sleeping. Maybe he was dreaming something; maybe he was dreaming of a place where his bones didn’t ache, in which his brain wasn’t bent so obsessively on killing its own vessel. 

If he was dreaming of it, then it suited him. He looked beautiful, even in his ruins.

(What if he wanted to stay there?)

In the end, Arthur was too selfish with love; before he finished the thought, his trembling fingers dialed the number for the A&E.


	3. six years ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Before it ended) it began six years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm trying myself out at a "story" with this--I have absolutely no idea how to do this, since most of my writing is just one-shots without much plot and stuff, and this is the first thing I'm putting up for you to read that's got, well, I guess you'd call it plot. Something's happening, at least (DIFFERENT SCENES IS WHAT I MEAN OKAY /headdesks). So, sorry if the thing with the years is a little weird and if the scenes don't match up. I hope they will? I have no idea how to do this. /scuttles off/

(Before it ended) it began six years ago.

Arthur was nineteen. He fancied himself young and reckless, but the truth was he was alone. He would admit to that; alone didn’t mean lonely or lonesome, after all. The strict regiment of Friday night dinners with his father saw to that. Beyond that, he was the captain of his uni’s footie team, among the top five students of his year, and he had no friends.

That was about to change.

It was a spring day, and the wind blew the rain on the lower half of his face, wetting his chin and bottom lip. He pulled his hoodie further down, tightened his grip on the sports bag slung over his shoulder. He was pissed and impatient; the idiot in front of him had been messing with the ATM for almost five minutes now, and Arthur needed the money more than he needed to get to his lecture, which he was late for. He had no time. He decided to tap the guy none too gently on the shoulder.

“Hurry up, will you?”

The guy turned to him, an apologetic grimace on his face. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with my card, it just—”

“Keeps getting rejected for whatever reason, yeah, I’ve realised that by now. Can’t you take your stupidity somewhere else? Let someone use it who actually knows how to use the thing.”

“Wow, no need to be pissy, mate—”

“I’m not your mate. Just hurry up.”

“I can’t do anything else than what I’m doing already, yeah? Chill out.”

“If you chill out any longer I’ll still be here next week.” Arthur felt the growl in his voice now, his irritation rising. “Get going.”

The guy turned around to him, disregarded the ATM entirely. “What the hell? You can’t just tell me—”

“I can. And I am. Hurry up, or get the fuck lost.”

Apparently offensive language wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, because that got him a shove, one that didn’t do much. “That’s an interesting version of ‘get lost’,” Arthur said, lips widening into an amused grin. He shrugged his sports bag off, pushed his hoodie from his face. The rain was cold on his forehead and cheeks, tickling as it ran down the side of his nose. “I can help you get lost, if you want me to show you.”

“As if I’d need any help from a wanker like you.”

“I think you do,” Arthur told him, mock-regretfully, before he placed both hands on the idiot’s shoulders and pushed him back, sending him crashing into the ATM. “See? That was a shove, for example, unlike—”

“I think you’ve had your fun, my friend,” a voice from behind him said suddenly, and then there was a real shove whose force sent Arthur a couple steps back. He watched, flabbergasted, as the lanky stranger out of nowhere knelt in front of the idiot guy to make sure he was okay. Idiot guy grumbled and nodded, said something about wankers, and when the lanky stranger helped him up, he threw Arthur a glare, got his card and walked off with a muttered ‘thanks.’

“You sure are a dick, huh,” the stranger said, kneeling to retrieve his bag. “What was that for?”

“That’s none of your business,” Arthur snapped, anger spiking, already taking a step forward for a continuation of the scuffle. “The hell do you think you are?”

“Someone with more brain than brawn, unlike you,” the stranger replied easily, turning to Arthur.

Fuck.

The man in front of him was gorgeous: dark-haired and blue-eyed, he had a narrow face, insane cheekbones and sensual, plump lips Arthur wanted to sink his teeth into. He was lithe and tall, and even though the overlarge hoodie and ratty jeans he was wearing concealed his physique, Arthur knew from the force of his shove that his body hid a shock of wiry strength. The attraction was instantaneous and brutal—dive, hook, _pull_ , and Arthur was forced to endure the almost painful contraction of his stomach straight-faced. 

To his alarm, even those _ears_ didn’t make him cringe.

“Brain won’t help you much when I’m done with a beanpole like you,” he managed, stupidly. 

Beanpole, after taking a step back to stand under the building to shield himself from the rain, regarded him with a slow, almost lazy smile. Arthur clenched his jaw against the sheer force of the thrill that the sight sent crashing along his spine. “‘Beanpole,’ huh? Did it hurt your two brain cells to come up with that one?”

“Do I know you?” Arthur repeated, because for some reason his tongue wanted to taste the combination of vowels and consonants that identified this beautiful, aggravating man.

“Don’t think so. I’m Merlin,” Merlin said, and his smile widened into a smirk that said he knew exactly how annoying he was when he stuck out his hand for Arthur to shake.

“So I don’t know you.” Arthur ignored his hand, like he ignored the hot throb of want in his guts as his brain wrapped itself around the name. 

“No.”

“Yet you called me friend.”

“My mistake.” Merlin took his hands back, shrugging. “You seem to be too much of an arse to really have any friends. Sorry for assuming.”

“Oh, I have friends, all right.” Arthur stepped closer, curious to see how quickly he could send _Merlin_ scampering off. He knew he was broad and strong in comparison to Merlin’s stick-figure self, but Merlin just watched him, nonchalant and unmoving. “They’re just not as intellectually challenged as you are.”

“Woah, big man uses big words.” Merlin gave a mock-whistle. “Really, _awfully_ scary.”

For no reason at all, Arthur threw his head back at that and couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. God, what was Merlin thinking? He couldn’t possibly believe that he could ever take on Arthur. He was maybe as brave as he was stupid, but there was just no possibility he was that mentally damaged. “I would be scared, if I were you,” he said, then, in an overly friendly manner, lips quirking. His body was cold from the rain soaking through his clothes, but he didn’t notice: Merlin demanded all of his concentration.

“What, from a big macho man like you?” There were arched eyebrows, and Merlin straightened his stance a little. Arthur’s nostrils flared when he saw the other man had an inch or two on him. “Oh, what are you going to do? Get your buddies to protect you?”

“I don’t need my buddies to teach you how to walk on your knees, Merlin,” Arthur retorted, snorting with disbelief—Merlin was a right fool, but at least he was amusing. “Do you want me to show you?”

Merlin’s response was spitfire-quick. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why, what are you going to do me?” 

“You have no idea,” Merlin said, as if he actually believed he had anything on Arthur.

“By my guest, then!” Arthur threw his arms wide open, goading Merlin into a reaction. Merlin didn’t, just continued watching him with the most bored expression and heaved a sigh, like Arthur was the idiot and not he himself. For some reason, that made Arthur clench his teeth, suddenly aware of how he was looking—him, strong and broad, goading a stick-figure into a fight. He’d clearly be pinned down as the bully here. It made him inexplicably angry, and he fought to keep his composure.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Merlin bent down to pat the dirt from his knees; he looked up at Arthur, then, through his rain-curly fringe, licking his lips. His hair was dark and wet, his mouth (so, so sensuous) red.

His eyes were blue and drops of rain were clinging to his lashes. The sight made Arthur’s knee buckle and weaken right where he was standing.

Merlin was beautiful.

And fucking _aggravating_.

He said, “‘m not in the habit of beating up poor protozoa like yourself,” and then added, cheekily, with a wink, “Even if you’re quite a gorgeous specimen, I gotta say.”

This was where it began, on the rainy spring day six years ago; Arthur was nineteen and Merlin was _Merlin_ , and Arthur surged forward to send his fist crashing into Merlin’s jaw.


	4. now

(now)

 

“…‘lo?”

Silence. Only the hum of static answers.

“Who’s… who’s this?”

“…Guinevere.”

“Arthur?”

“Yeah.” A very light, controlled exhale. “Hi.”

“Arthur, it’s—it’s…” Fabric rustling. A groan. “…oh my God, it’s three in the night, Arthur.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Are you… are you drunk?”

“No. I.” Silence, again. Then, “Look, this is a stupid idea. Let’s just—I’ll call you back tomorrow, yeah?”

There’s an undertone that Gwen picks up on, even this late. One she doesn’t like at all. “No, no. What’s—are you okay? Did something happen?” And that was, in some ways, a stupid question. “Do you need me to come pick you up? Oh god, you didn’t drink and drive, did you? Where are you? Are you hurt?”

“No, Guinevere, I didn’t drink. Or drive.”

“Oh, thank God, I’d thought you’d done something stupid.”

“I think I’m a little too old for postponed teenage rage.”

“I hate to tell you, but you’re either so emotionally stuck-up the teenage angst will come with fifty, or your inner self is a teenager perpetually drowned in angst. Take your pick?” A loud yawn. “Well, Arthur, in any case, you’re disgustingly articulate at bloody three in the night.”

A pause. The laugh, when it comes, is watery and thick. Gwen’s chest tightens.

“…Arthur?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t even know. Just.”

“Arthur.”

“I know. Sorry. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Shhh. It’s all right, Arthur.”

Another exhalation, longer, slower, like a tremble from the wrist to a finger. Suddenly, a sound like something falling onto the floor. Gwen flinches away from the earpiece. Behind her, Lance stirs and slurs her name. “‘wen?”

“It’s all right, Lance. Go to sleep.” She presses the phone back to her ear. “Arthur? Arthur, are you there? Answer me.”

“Arthur? Is he all right?”

“I don’t know, he just…” She listens carefully. Distant sounds reach her, like someone’s moving, shifting around. There’s a noise, wet and thick, but it’s not a laugh. “Arthur. Arthur, answer me. Can you hear me? Please answer me.”

“What’s wrong? Gwen?” Lance’s hand curves around her shoulder, his breath on her neck. “Is Arthur okay?”

“No. I think it’s—”

There’s an abrupt sound in her ear, like crinkling fabric. Then breathing. Irregular and heavy.

“I don’t know what to do,” comes Arthur’s voice, subdued over wire. Thin and strained. “He’s not here, and I. I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know, Arthur?” Soothing.

“What to do. I. I keep thinking of—and I don’t want that. I don’t. But. Everywhere, it’s everywhere. And sometimes, it—oh God, sometimes, Gwen, sometimes it hurts so bad I can’t breathe.” A gasp, like a shock. Gwen’s heart speeds up when there is no exhalation, just quietness.

“Arthur. Arthur, breathe. Breathe.”

“C-can’t—”

“Take a deep breath, Arthur, take a deep breath, hold it, and breathe out.”

A series of shuddered gasps. Still no exhalation. The sting in Gwen’s chest intensifies. “Shhh, you can do it. I’m here. Breathe in, hold it, and breathe out. Slowly.”

Following her words, slowly, slowly, the gasps even out to wheezing. That’s good; it’s progress. It’s not static but breathing, and that’s what Arthur needs.

“It’s all right, I’m here. I’m here.”

“S-sorry.” There’s another moment of silence, shifting, a far-away sound like a sob. Lance kisses her shoulder, mumbles, “Well done.” She gives him an absent half-smile, too focused on the sounds from the phone to respond. She listens, intently, to more fabric rustling and a dull smack which makes her wince. She can almost see Arthur punching the floor with his fist.

When he returns, his voice is tight. “S-sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s all right. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I.” A sharp intake of breath. Then, abruptly, “No. No, I’m not. I’m not okay.”

Gwen smiles sadly. “I know.”

“I don’t—don’t know what to do. I know I don’t want—I can’t, Gwen, I can’t, not again, not because it hurts but because of what…” A breathless pause. Then, very small, “Because of what I did.”

Gwen wants to say it’s okay, but she knows it’s not. So she says nothing. 

“It’s just, everything’s… everything’s… it’s all so—so useless, as if, as if nothing makes any sense? There’s no—no reason to anything, Gwen, and… I…”

Another pause. Arthur’s breathing turns shaky, light, but it’s still there. His voice is quiet when he speaks, hushed. “I miss him,” he says, hoarsely, and Gwen knows he hates himself for saying it. “God, I do. I shouldn’t. But. I do. So much. I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

Gwen very cautiously and quietly says, “I think you know, Arthur.”

On the other end of the line, Arthur closes his eyes.

He does.

He does, and he’s never been more terrified in his entire life.


End file.
